Page 13 of Collateral Damage
“For what, Mom?” I ask. I sit on the edge of the bed, my back straight, my hands clamped together so she won't see them shake.
She studies me, her head tilting. The recognition I’m starving for flickers, then dies. “You’re Margaret’s niece. From the church. You brought the lemon cake last summer, didn't you?”
I don’t lie. But I don’t upset her either. “It was a good cake.”
“It was,” she whispers, her fingers plucking at the lace on her collar. “But my daughter’s supposed to come. Ava. Have you seen her? She’s a good girl. She’s very busy. She’s got a big job. People need her.”
I want to bury my face in her lap and tell her that our house is tainted, that a ghost has been watching me sleep, and that I don't feel like a "good girl" anymore. I feel like prey.
Instead, I reach out and take her hand. Her skin’s thin as parchment, cool and dry.
“Ava’s on her way,” I say. My voice is steady—the strongest thing left of me. “She called. She wanted me to tell you she loves you. She wanted you to know she’s safe.”
My mother’s face relaxes, the tension draining out of her at the mention of the daughter who, in her mind, isn't standing right in front of her. “I just worry. The world’s so big, isn’t it? It’s so easy to get lost.”
“She’s not lost,” I say, and for a second, I’m talking to the empty air. “She knows exactly where she is.”
We sit in silence for a long time. I watch the clock on the wall, the second hand ticking toward a day I don't know how to face. I watch her drift, her eyes clouding as the medication begins to pull her under.
“You’ve got her eyes,” she murmurs, her voice trailing off as her chin drops toward her chest. “Margaret’s niece... tell Ava to wear a coat. It’s getting cold.”
“I’ll tell her,” I whisper.
I stay until her breathing evens out, until she’s a hundred miles away in a memory I’m unable to enter.
Silas
I stand in the lobby of Greenfield Memory Care, back to a decorative pillar. From here, I’ve got a clear line of sight to the heavy glass entrance and the hallway where Ava vanished.
I pull my phone out and dial the precinct. I don’t get a direct line; I get a weary-sounding desk sergeant who transfers me to Detective Vance.
“Vance,” the man says, sounding like he’s chewing on a stale pencil.
“Detective, Silas Hightower. I’m the private security lead for Ava Morrison at Lindenford Manor. I’m calling to report a confirmed physical breach and long-term nesting at the property.”
I hear a sharp, derisive snort. “Lindenford? Let me guess. Ms. Morrison heard a floorboard creak again. Or did a branch hit the window during the storm? Listen, Hightower, we’ve sent patrol cars out to that museum four times in the last month. Every time, it’s nothing but an old house being old.”
My jaw tightens so hard my teeth ache. I force my voice to stay level, but the edges are fraying. “This isn't a noise complaint, Detective. I’ve found physical modifications to the HVAC system in the third-floor guest suite. Someone’s established a surgical line of sight through the floorboards into the master bedroom. There’s habitual wear on the drywall at the stair turns. This is a sophisticated predator.”
“Look, Hightower,” Vance cuts in, his tone hardening. “I don't know what she’s paying you to tell her, but Ms. Morrison has a history of wasting department resources. She’s got a Grade 4 system that hasn't logged a single trip. If there was someone in that house, my boys would've found them. We’re not playing along with this anymore.”
I feel the heat crawling up my neck, a prickle of genuine fury. It’s not just the dismissal; it’s the casual, lazy arrogance of it.
“Your ‘boys’ looked for broken glass and forced entry,” I say, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. “They didn't look for a ghost code in the alarm logs or a modified vent cover. This person is bypassing your standard protocols. I can get the logs that verify it. If you’ve got a tech who actually knows how to read an override sequence, I’ll send them over. Otherwise, you're leaving her wide open.”
He scoffs down the line. “You’re a real piece of work,” Vance says. “You come into my town, tell me my officers are incompetent, and then ask me to chase another one of Ms. Morrison’s fantasies? I’ve got actual homicides on my desk. I’ve got real victims who don't live in sixteen-thousand-square-foot fortresses.”
I close my eyes for a second, gripped by the urge to reach through the phone. “She’s going to be a ‘real victim’ if you don't take this seriously. The screws on that vent were seated with professional precision. No paint chips, no stripping. He’s been in there for weeks. He’s watching her sleep. Does that sound like a fantasy to you?”
“Then move her,” Vance snaps. “You’re the high-priced security guy. Do your job and stop trying to make it mine. If you find a body or a smoking gun, call 911. Otherwise, stay off my line.”
The dial tone hits like a slap.
I pull the phone away and stare at the screen, my hand shaking slightly with a surge of adrenaline I have nowhere to put. I’ve dealt with bureaucrats before, but this is different. This is negligence masquerading as cynicism.
I look at the hallway. Twelve minutes. Ava’s still in there, convinced that a badge and a title mean the gears are finally turning.
She thinks she’s safe. Now I have to tell her that her "protection" just dialed out.
